


Day of Birthing

by AtPK



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Barduil - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:26:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4313892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtPK/pseuds/AtPK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barduil Week Drabble: Cultural Difference (Day 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day of Birthing

“Where were you?” Bard demanded, bristling with anger.

“I,” Thranduil caught the angry looks from the children, and stalled.

“‘Today, Thranduil,” Bard enunciated. “Where were you?”

“I was at the Court, overseeing a dispute.” he replied, unsure what was causing this friction.

Bard stood up.

“What day is it?”

At least that was a question he could answer easily.

“Oranor.”

Bard stared at him for a moment that stretched on for an eternity.

“What day did I tell you it was?”

They had spoken of it a few days previous so Thranduil also knew the answer to this one.

“It is the day of your birthing,”

“Yes,” Bard said, exasperated. “My birthday. You missed my birthday.”

Thranduil stared at him blankly. Bard threw up his hands and stormed out of the room, followed by Sigrid and Bain, who both gave him very stern looks. He looked at Tilda across the kitchen table.

“Pen tithen,” he began, but she put her hands on her hips. and gave him a look that said he better not try and sweet talk her with his elvish tongue. “Tilda,” he began again. “My dear one, I am at a loss; I don’t understand what I’ve done to cause such upset to you all.”

“You missed Da’s birthday.” she said, as if that was all the explanation needed. “Sigrid baked a cake and we made a banner.”

Thranduil looked around him at the evidence of a small party, his heart slowly sinking.

“You mark the cycle of your aging from the date of your birth.”

It was a statement.

A realisation.

“Of course,” she said, again as if it was the most obvious thing ever. “When else would we celebrate it?”

His relationship with Bard was still in its infancy and yet he had already made one of the most fundamental of mistakes.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must try and make amends.”

“Yes, you’d better.” she called after him as he stepped out of the kitchen, and made his way up the stairs. The door to Bard’s bedroom was slammed shut on him before he reached it.

“Bard,” he knocked, hesitant.

“Go away, Thranduil. I don’t want to see you right now.”

Thranduil stood on his side of the door, and stared dumbfounded. This was their first ever real disagreement, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Normally in these situations he’d either have the offending person locked in his cells until they came around to his way of thinking, or he’d banish them from the kingdom entirely. With Bard, he could do neither.

“Bard, please forgive me; I didn’t appreciate the significance of this day.” When Bard didn’t respond, he continued. “We elves do not mark the day of birth, we celebrate only the day of conception.” Silence, still. It was strange to think that men put more importance in the day they first came screaming into the world, instead of in the moment they first blinked into existence. But then, perhaps it was only the elves that could feel the delicate changes in the energy.

Thranduil rested his head on the cool wood of the door. He knew that, by the calendar of man, a year was three hundred and sixty five days. He knew that an elven yen consisted of one hundred and forty four of those years. He knew that this yen belonged to Bard and that he would cherish it for all his other yen to come. “Bard, please open the door; let’s not waste our time arguing over silly misunderstandings.”

Bard wrenched open the door, glaring at him: “You’re a damned fool.”

Thranduil nodded; he’d been called far worse.

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday.”

Bard didn’t move away as Thranduil stepped in closer.

“I promise you I will never miss another; not even if my kingdom is being overrun by orcs. I will be with you only.”

Bard sighed and looked up at him, long suffering.

“Will you let me make it up to you?”

“That depends,” Bard replied. “What did you have in mind?”

Thranduil wanted to cherish him, to touch him and kiss him, and burn to memory every freckle and mole, every blemish and scar, every inch of this beautiful man in front of him.

“I want to make memories.”

“Sounds like fun.” Bard’s eyes now shone with a dark humour.

“Yes,” Thranduil agreed.

Bard stepped into the room, and Thranduil followed him in, closing the door behind him.

“So, when is your conception day?” Bard asked as he helped Thranduil out of his robes. “Just so I don’t make the same mistake.”

Thranduil paused and thought for a time, before reaching out a hand to brush aside a strand of Bard’s hair. He didn’t have the heart to tell him that there was still a further one hundred and four years before his next official elven celebration.

“Shortly after Yestare.”

If Bard wished to celebrate his conception day with him, then Thranduil would happily and willing do so every three hundred and sixty five days, by the calendar of man.


End file.
